


the glaciers made you and now you're mine

by melwritesthings



Series: where the wind rages through your hair [1]
Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: But here it is, F/M, Will I delete this tomorrow only time will tell, i uhh am not sure why i wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 00:10:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15740115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melwritesthings/pseuds/melwritesthings
Summary: Sometimes he thinks that it is Anne who brings the changing seasons as she moves through the world. Summer storms roll across the island as she tramps along sea cliffs. Autumn creeps along behind her when she wanders through the orchard, and fierce winter winds race through the woods just so they might whip through her hair.Spring blossoms simply because she wills it so.





	the glaciers made you and now you're mine

**Author's Note:**

> i am not really sure where this came from! it's 4 am and it just exploded in my brain. title comes from "your rocky spine" by great lake swimmers and definitely an inspiration for this little fic.

Anne Shirley was formed from the earth at Prince Edward Island.

 

At least, that’s how Gilbert thinks of her.

 

Whereas his own birth was a cataclysmic moment of pain and devastation and, yes, death that signaled the end of his family, he pictures Anne as being molded from the soil and set to life with some whispered spell.

 

Yes, Anne was born of sea spray and woodland blossoms. Her hair made red by bramble fruits and sunlight, with bones built from knotted spruce branches.

 

Gilbert thinks of her freckles, surely just a dusting of the red island soil, as he drifts off to sleep at night. If he touched them, he wonders—if he brushed her petal-soft skin—would they fall away?

 

Sometimes he thinks that it is Anne who brings the changing seasons as she moves through the world. Summer storms roll across the island as she tramps along sea cliffs. Autumn creeps along behind her when she wanders through the orchard, and fierce winter winds race through the woods just so they might whip through her hair.

 

Spring blossoms simply because she wills it so.

 

Gilbert knows that Anne—flesh and blood and so appallingly _human_ sometimes—had lived many lifetimes before tearing his own world asunder.

 

But when he lays in the bowels of a ship, heavy with grime and sweat and exhaustion, his mind carries him to Avonlea. And his Avonlea, his home, lives in Anne Shirley’s beating heart.

 

So intrinsically linked are his island and his Anne, that Gilbert is stunned to find traces of her scattered about the globe when he at last disembarks.

 

Her freckles are not soil but spices, and he finds them sold by the barrel at Caribbean markets. Turmeric, cumin, and chili; cinnamon and nutmeg—fragrant and sharp and bold. Of course they came from Anne.

 

Gilbert sits in Ireland among the red rhododendron, knowing that he is looking at her hair. Her skin is in the white sand that stretches along the Mediterranean. The ragged peninsulas reaching into the Aegean Sea could be her long and ink-stained fingers. As the ship glides across the black Atlantic, he gazes skyward and finds that the Milky Way matches the flecks of silver in her eyes.

 

Anne was not created by the soil or the trees, he knows; but it is his earth that is made from her. Gilbert can traverse the globe and find her in pieces. He is comforted by the glimpses of her that dot his travels.

 

It is not long, however, before these glimpses cease to be enough. The scattered fragments do not allow him to visit with her heart or her mind. Anne’s hair, her freckles, her eyes; they do not soothe the ache he feels for her voice. Her laugh. Soon Gilbert thinks he will go mad if he cannot brush her hand, real and solid, with his own.

 

Anne’s beauty is a wild contradiction of colors and shapes; as is the earth he crosses to return to her. And like this earth, Gilbert wants to savor and understand it all. But Anne, his real Anne, cannot be replicated by landscape.

 

No, these flower-laden visions will no longer do. To get to her—the soul of her—he must return to Avonlea and its beating heart.

 

 _Grant me calm seas if it pleases you, Anne_ , he thinks, _for I am on my way._

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr at aanneshirley :)


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